Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Contracting the Squash...

A mea culpa from the auteur: I inadvertantly Published a draft of this post yesterday evening, thanks to underwhelming Blogger protocols and my touchy chicklet keyboard. I hurriedly took it down and pasted a new draft so I could finish my Monday effort. But I just heard it through the blogvine (thanks DaisyFae!) that die-hard Blaiserblogarians apparently automatically get a new post seared into their readers like some kind of digital branding iron... And like an errant curve ball from a Minor League prospect, my crappy first draft is apparently unretrievable. So there ya go. At any rate, please find the finished product below. Anyone got the 800 number for WordPress...?


You know what sucks about pumpkins? They won't announce they're rotten until you go to lift that small one placed upon your stereo for decoration, and its stem comes off in your hand, and just that little jolt opens up a slit in its liquified interior, and rancid pumpkin juices run down your stereo. Don't deny this has happened to you.

It's Autumn for the love of Mike. You placed the pumpkin there because it made the place more Fall-like. It was not only a good idea at the time, it was a damn fine idea. Trouble is, there's no expiration date for squash. And the deceitful pumpkin... vessel of pulp and wet seed and that which Linus made holy with his worship... well let's just say that it's not your friend. No, not at all your friend.



But it never lets you see it sweat... it's downright regal, the pumpkin, until it's a corpse and then it's too late. This is a metaphor for something, and if you'll bear with me, maybe I can get to it.

When Martha Graham was 95 and still clinging to life as the artistic director of her eponymous dance company, they'd carry her out on stage in a chair so that she could take her curtain call -- mummified though she already was, sporting a deathmask right out of Terry Gilliam's Brazil, scaring the hell out of the union stagehands, who don't spook easy. Then one day, they picked her up and the juices just ran right out of her, and that was that. Never saw her sweat until the bitter end. Just like a pumpkin. *



Random joy for your Tuesday mid-morning: instead of that fourth cup of coffee: Ben Folds' cover of "In Between Days." I've created a "meme" for your edification. Press play on the embedded clip below, and then follow the instructions on scrolling down. I know, I know, it's more work than you want to do. It's worth it. Quit whinging and hit Play already.




First 36 bars:



 

next 32 bars:




short 16 bars:




last 32 bars of Intro:





First Verse 32 Bars:



Go On, Go On, Just Walk Away:



Short 16 bars: (And I know it was wrong..)




Before Second Verse:




Second Verse 32 Bars:



Next 32 Bars (Come Back, Come Back...:)



 

Short 16 Bars:





Without You 32 bars:




Big Choral Finish! 32 bars




Without You: (scroll down at your leisure)






Thanks again for listening and reading. And please remember: Just because Steve Jobs is slaving away on the new Maximum Aphrodisiac App for the iPad, it doesn't make your jeans fit any better.


* I have the highest regard possible for Ms. Graham, her singular impact on American art, and the subsequent army of modern dance choreographers that enabled me to get paid to see Europe. I have fictionalized her death in the service of Zany Optimism and mean no dissrespect. You can find the real deal, by a real writer, here.

2 comments:

  1. if i'd have known, i could have copied the draft version from my reader and e-mailed it to you! but you did fine!

    and i about liquidated my own fluids AGAIN at the new iPad app...

    "squash is not your friend". i'm going to have bumper stickers issued...

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  2. Y'know things started to go downhill when I roasted the crap out of a butternut and the darn thing just wouldn't soften up. It was then that I started to suspect they were the vegetable of the devil....

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